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A PSALM OF DEATHS 
AND OTHER POEMS 






S: WEIR MITCHELL M. D. LL. D. Harv. 

AUTHOR OF "THE HILL OF STONES AND OTHER POEMS " "A MASQUE 
AND OTHER POEMS " " THE CUP OF YOUTH " ETC 



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v<r.y 



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BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

(ftfce Iftftier#&e $re£& Camfrri&oe 

1890 



11 



Copyright, 1890, 
By S. WEIR MITCHELL 

All rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 



To 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



CONTENTS. 



PAGK 

A PSALM OF DEATHS. 

Of One who Fell upon the Way ... 3 

Of Those Remembered 5 

Of One Dead . . 7 

v w ^--Pained unto Death 8 

The Whole Creation Groaneth ... 9 

In the Valley of the Shadow . . . . 11 

A Canticle of Time 15 

MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON, AND OTHER 
POEMS. 

Master Francois Villon 23 

How the Poet for an Hour was King . . 42 

A Psalm of the Waters 47 

Coleridge at Chamouny 51 

Dominique de Gourgues 53 

The Waves at Midnight 60 

September 62 

Beaver Tail Rocks 63 

October 64 

You and I 65 

Tennyson 67 

The Carry 68 

Of a Poet 69 

NOTES 70 



A PSALM OF DEATHS. 



A PSALM OF DEATHS. 



OF ONE WHO FELL ON THE WAY. 

'T is but one more to-morrow. Thou art gray 

With many a death of many a yesterday. 

O yearning heart that lacked the athlete's force 

And, stumbling, fell upon the beaten course, 

And looked, and saw with ever glazing eyes 

Some lower soul that seemed to win the prize ! 

Lo, Death, the just, who comes to all alike, 

Life's sorry scales of right anew shall strike. 

Forth, through the night, on unknown shores to win 

The peace of God unstirred by sense of sin ! 

There love without desire shall, like a mist 

At evening precious to the drooping flower, 

Possess thy soul in ownership, and kissed 

By viewless lips, whose touch shall be a dower 

Of genius and of winged serenity, 

Thou shalt abide in realms of poesy. 

There soul hath touch of soul, and there the great 

Cast wide to welcome thee joy's golden gate. 



4 A PSALM OF DEATHS. 

Free born to thoughts that ever age on age 

Caressed sweet singers in their sacred sleep, 

Thy soul shall enter on its heritage 

Of God's unuttered wisdom. Thou shalt sweep 

With hand assured the ringing lyre of life, 

Till the fierce anguish of its bitter strife, 

Its pain, death, discord, sorrow, and despair, 

Break into rhythmic music. Thou shalt share 

The prophet-joy that kept forever glad 

God's poet-souls when all a world was sad. 

Enter and live ! Thou hast not lived before ; 

We are but soul-cast shadows. Ah, no more 

The heart shall bear the burdens of the brain ; 

Now shall the strong heart think, nor think in vain. 

In the dear company of peace, and those 

Who bore for man life's utmost agony, 

Thy soul shall climb to cliffs of still repose, 

And see before thee lie Time's mystery, 

And that which is God's time, Eternity ; 

Whence sweeping over thee dim myriad things, 

The awful centuries yet to be, in hosts 

That stir the vast of heaven with formless wings, 

Shall cast for thee their shrouds, and, like to ghosts, 

Unriddle all the past, till awed and still 

Thy soul the secret hath of good and ill. 



OF THOSE REMEMBERED. 



OF THOSE REMEMBERED. 

There is no moment when our dead lose power ; 

Unsignaled, unannounced they visit us. 

Who calleth them I know not. Sorrowful, 

They haunt reproachfully some venal hour 

In days of joy, and when the world is near, 

And for a moment scourge with memories 

The money changers of the temple-soul. 

In the dim space between two gulfs of sleep, 

Or in the stillness of the lonely shore, 

They rise for balm or torment, sweet or sad. 

And most are mine where, in the kindly woods, 

Beside the child-like joy of summer streams, 

The stately sweetness of the pine hath power 

To call their kindred comforting anew. 

Use well thy dead. They come to ask of thee 

What thou hast done with all this buried love, 

The seed of purer life ? Or has it fallen unused 

In stony ways and brought thy life no gain ? 

Wilt thou with gladness in another world 

Say it has grown to forms of duty done 

And ruled thee with a conscience not thine own ? 

Another world ! How shall we find our dead ? 



OF THOSE REMEMBERED. 

What forceful law shall bring us face to face ? 
Another world ! What yearnings there shall guide ? 
Will love souls twinned of love bring near again ? 
And that one common bond of duty held 
This living and that dead, when life was theirs ? 
Or shall some stronger soul, in life revered, 
Bring both to touch, with nature's certainty, 
As the pure crystal atoms of its kind 
Draws into fellowship of loveliness ? 



OF ONE DEAD. 



OF ONE DEAD. 

There is a heart I knew in other days, 

Not ever far from any one day's thought ; 

One pure as are the purest. All the years 

Of battle, or of peace, of joy or grief, 

Take him no further from me. Oftentimes, 

When the sweet honesty of some glad girl 

Troubles my eyes, full suddenly I know 

It is because one memory ever dear 

Is matched a moment with its living kin. 

Or when at hearing of some gallant deed 

My throat fills, and I may not dare to say 

The quick praise in me, then I know, alas ! 

'T is by this dear dead nobleness my soul is stirred. 

He lived, he loved, he died. Small epitaph ! 

What hour of duty in the long grim wards 

Poisoned his life, I know not. Painfully 

He sickened, yearning for the strife of War 

That went its thunderous way unhelped of him ; 

And then he died. A little duty done ; 

A little love for many, much for me, 

And that was all beneath this earthly sun. 



PAINED UNTO DEATH. 



PAINED UNTO DEATH. 

One life I knew was a psalm, a terrible psalm of pain, 

Dark with disaster of torment, heart and brain 

Racked as if God were not, and hope a dream 

Some demon memory brought to bid blaspheme 

All life's dismembered sweetness. " Peace, be still," 

I hear her spirit whisper. " His the will 

That from some unseen bow of purpose sped 

This sorrow of my torture." God of dread ! 

The long sad years that justify the dead, 

The long sad years at last interpreted : 

Serene as clouds that over stormy seas, 

At sunset rise with mystery of increase, 

One with the passionate deep that gave them birth 

Her gentled spirit rose on wings of peace, 

And was and was not of this under earth. 



THE WHOLE CREATION GROANETH. 



THE WHOLE CREATION GROANETH. 

Art glad with the gladness of youth in thy veins, 

In thy hands, for the spending, earth's joy and its 

gains ? 
Lo ! winged with storm shadows the torturers come, 
And to-night, or to-morrow, thy lips shall be dumb, 
Thy hands wet with pain-thrills, thy nerves, that were 

strung 
To fineness of sense by earth's pleasure, be wrung 
With pangs the beast knows not, nor he who in tents 
Lives lone in the desert, and knoweth not whence 
The bread of the morrow. Pain like to a mist 
Goeth up from the earth, and is lost, and none wist 
Why ever it cometh, why ever it waits 
In the heart of our loves, like a foe in our gates. 
Lo ! summer and sunshine are over the land, — 
Who marshaled yon billows ? what wind of command 
Drives ever their merciless march on the strand ? 
Thus, dateless, relentless, the children of strife 
None have seen, on the sun-lighted beaches of life 
March ever the ravening billows of pain. 
O heart that is breaking go ask of the brain 
If aught God hath spent is but squandered in vain ? 



IO THE WHOLE CREATION GROANETH 

Yea, where is the sunshine of centuries dead ? 
Yea, where are the raindrops of yesterday shed ? 
God findeth anew his lost light in the force 
That holdeth the world on its resolute course, 
And surely, as surely the madness of pain 
Shall pass into wisdom, and come back again 
An angel of courage if thou art the one 
That knoweth to deal with the lightnings that stun 
To blindness the many. A thousand shall fall 
By the waysides of life, and in helplessness call 
For the death-alms which nature gives freely to all ; 
And one, like the jewel, shall break the fierce light 
That seareth thine eyeballs, and cast through the night 
The colours that read us its meaning aright. 
1890. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. II 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 

THE CENTURION. 

A dark cell of the Circus Maximus. The Centurion and 
his child. 

" Father ! keep me ; hold me closer. Are they lions 

that I hear ? 
Once beside the Syrian desert where we camped I 

heard them near 
While our servants made us music ; and there 's music 

now. 'T was night, 
And 't is very dark here, father. There we had the 

stars for light. 
Father, father ! that was laughter, and the noise of 

many hands. 
Why is it they make so merry ? Shall we laugh soon ? 

On the sands 
How you smiled to see my terror. ' What,' you said, 

'A Roman maid 
Tremble in the Legion's camp ! A Roman maiden 

and afraid ! ' 

" Hush ! Who called ? Who called me ? Mother ! Surely 
that was mother's voice." 



12 IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 

But the gray centurion trembling murmured, "Little 
one, rejoice ! " 

Yet a single moan of sorrow broke the guard his man- 
hood set, 

While the sweetness of her forehead with a storm of 
tears was wet. 

And he answered, as she questioned, " That was but 
the rain God sends 

To the flowers he loves," — then lower, — " Grief and 
I are friends." 

"Father, father, now 't is quiet. Was it mother ? I am 

cold. 
Who, I wonder, feeds my carp ? who, I wonder, at the 

fold 
Combs my lambs ? who prunes my roses ? Think you 

they will keep us long 
From the sunshine ? Hark, the lions ! Ah ! they must 

be fierce and strong ! " 

" Peace, my daughter. Soon together we shall walk 
through gardens fair, 

Where the lilies psalms are singing, and the roses 
whisper prayer." 

" Who will bring us to the garden ? " " Christ ! Thou 
wilt not hear him call ; 

Suddenly wide doors shall open ; on thy eyes the sun 
shall fall ; 

Thou shalt see God's lions, waiting, and, above, a liv- 
ing wall, 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 13 

Yea, ten thousand faces waiting, come to help our holi- 
day, 

Music, flowers, and the Caesar. — Rest upon my shoul- 
der, lay 

One small hand in mine, — and peace. A moment I 
would think and pray. 

" I am sore with shame and scourging, I, a Roman ! I, 

a knight ! 
Yea, if nobly born, the nobler for the birth of higher 

light. 
Was it pain, and was it shame ? The lictor's rods fell 

on a man ; 
On the God-man fell those scourges, and the bitter 

drops that ran 
Flowed from eyes that wept for millions, came of pain 

none else can know, 
An eternity of anguish, counted as the blood drops 

flow. 
Mine is but an atom's torment ; mine shall bring eter- 
nal gain ; 
His, the murder pangs of ages, paid with usury of pain. 
Art thou weary of the darkness ? Art thou cold, my 

little maid ? 
Hast thou sorrow of my sorrow ? Kiss my cheek. Be 

not dismayed. 
Lo, the nearness of one moment setteth age to lonely 

thought, 
Would his will but make us one ere yet his perfect will 

be wrought. 



14 IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 

That may not be. Once, once only Love must drop 

the hand of love." 
" Father, father ! Hark, the lions ! " " Peace, my little 

one, my love, 
Soon thy darkened cage will open, soon the voice of 

Christ will say, 
' Come and be among my lilies, where the golden 

fountains play, 
And an angel legion watches, and forever it is day.' 
So, my hand upon thy shoulder. You, so little ! I, so 

tall ! 
Now, one kiss — earth's last ! My darling." Back the 

iron gate bolts fall. 
Lo, the gray arena's quiet, and the faces waiting all, 
Waiting, and the lions waiting, while the gray centu- 
rion smiled, 
As, beneath the white velarium, fell God's sunlight on 

the child : 
For a gentle voice above them murmured, " Forth, and 

have no fear," 
And the little maiden answered, " Lo, Christ Jesu, I 

am here ! " 



A CANTICLE OF TIME. 1 5 



A CANTICLE OF TIME. 

Hours of grieving, 

Hours of thought ; 

Hours of believing, 

Hours of naught. 

Hours when the thieving 

Fingers of doubt steal 

Heart riches, faith bought. 

Hours of spirit dearth, 

Earthy, and born of earth, 

When the racked universe 

Is as a hell, or worse. 

Hours when the curtain furled 

Backward, revealed to us 

Sorrowful sin gulfs, 

Self had concealed from us. 

Hours of wretchedness ; 

Palsies that blind. 

Hours none else can guess, 

When the dumb mind 

Faints, and heart wisdom 

Is all that we find. 

Hours when the cloud 



1 6 A CANTICLE OF TIME. 

That hides the unknown 
A cumbering shroud 
About us is thrown. 
Hours that seem to part 
Goodness and God. 
Hours of fierce yearning, 
When fruit of love's earning 
Is shred from the heart. 
Hours when no angel 
Hovers o'er life. 
Hours when no Christ-God 
Pities our strife. 
Yea, such is life ! 

Slowly the hours 
Gather to years ; 
They deal with our tears 
That grief be not vain, 
Gently as flowers 
Deal with the rain. 
Slowly the hours 
Gather to years, 
Sowing with roses 
The graves of our fears. 
Lo ! the dark crosses 
Of torture's completeness 
Mistily fade into 
Symbols of sweetness, 
And behold it is evening. 



A CANTICLE OF TIME. 17 

Swift through the grass 
Shuttles of shadow 
Silently pass, 
Weaving at last 
Tapestries sombre, 
Solemn and vast, 
And behold it is night ! 
Silence profound, 
Solitude vacant 
Of touch and of sound 
Thy being doth bound. 
This is death's loneliness, 
Answerless, pitiless ! 
What of thee was king, 
Let it crownless descend 
From its tottering throne ; 
Lo ! thou art alone, 
And behold, 't is the end ! 

What sayeth the soul ? 
" God wasteth naught 
Think you in vain 
He sowed in thy childhood 
Thought-seed in the brain, 
And the joy to create, 
Like his own joy, and will, 
Like a fragment of fate 
For the godlike control 
Of the heaven of thy angels, 



1 3 A CANTICLE OF TIME. 

The loves of thy soul ? 

Ay, strong for the rule 

Of devils that tempt thee, 

Of demons that fool ? 

Shall so much of Him 

Merely perish in haste, 

Just stumble, and die, 

And Death be a jester's mad riddle 

Without a reply ? 

And Life naught but waste ? 

Behold, it is day," 

Saith the soul. 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 1 

THE COUNT DE LILLE. 
THE SEIGNEUR DE LUCE. 

Time, circa 1463. 

DE LUCE. 

Our good Duke Charles, you tell me, fain would know 
Where bides this other rhymer. Be it so. 
I might have said, I know not : for to lie 
Is easy, natural, and hath brevity 
To win its hearing favour, whilst the truth 
Spins out forever like a woman's youth, 
And lacks the world for ally. But mere pride 
Would make me honest. Let the duke decide 
'Twixt boor and noble. Ah ! 't was gay, I think, 
When we were lads together. What ! not drink ? 
Then, by St. Bacchus, here 's to you, my lord ! 
Men say that luck, a liberal jade, has poured 
Her favours on you : lordships half a score, 
Castles and lands, that vineyard on the Loire ; 
Something too much for one who lightly leaves 
Such wine as this. Alas ! who has, receives. 



24 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 



DE LILLE. 



Come when you will and share it. I have served 
God and the king. What fortune I 've deserved 
The good saints know; through many a year I 

played 
The games of war and peace. My father's blade 
Has no stain on it. That, it seemeth me, 
Were pleasant to the conscience, when set free 
From war and council and grown old and gray 
Fades in monastic peace one's life away. 
These war-filled years gone by since last we met 
Have had their griefs. What of yourself ? Forget 
My fates and me. I think the latter wars 
Have missed your helping. As for me, my scars 
Count half these years. 



Well, as chance willed, I fought 
In Spain, or Italy, or France, and brought 
Some pretty plunder back ; have killed my share, 
Dutch, Don, or Switzer, any — everywhere 
That bones were to be broken and the fare 
And game were good ; have taken soldier pay 
On this side and on that. In wine or play 
Spent gayly ; found life but a merry friend 
That lent, and then forgot the debt To end, 
Came home. And now my tale. On Easter day 
It lost its hero. 

Silence, once 't is broke, 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 2$ 

Can no man mend. 'T was thus this fellow spoke 

Of whom I talk. I never owned the thing 

Folks like to label conscience, which the king 

Packs wisely on his chancellor. My device, 

' Suivez le Roi] suits well with life. Not nice 

Need one to be who Louis, or the rest, 

Loyally follows, — taking what is best 

Each good day offers ; yet, sometimes, De Lille, 

Woman or wine, or one's too ready steel, 

Lures one a trifle past the line of sport, 

And then, — you see my point, — a friend at court 

Perchance is needed. Gossip, hereabout, 

Which spreads like oil on water, leaves no doubt 

That I should speak. That wastrel had a way, 

A trick of speech, as when he said, one day, 

" The pot of Silence cracked, 't were best to break." 

Strange how his words stay with me ! Half awake 

Last night, I saw him, laughing too, and gay, 

A grinning ghost, De Lille. What priest could lay 

A rhyming, jesting fiend ? I have killed men, 

Ay, and some pretty fellows too, but then 

None troubled sleep. This dead man, like an owl, 

Roosts, wide-eyed, on my breast, — a feeble fowl — 

Mere barnyard fowl at morn, — a carrion ghost. 

The Devil has bad locks to keep his host 

Of poets, thieves, and tipplers. 

DE LILLE. 

Think you so ? 
No man can tell, De Luce, when some chance blow 



26 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

Shall give him memories none may care to know. 
Once, when we charged nigh Burgos, sorely pressed, 
I drove my rapier through a youngster's breast 
In wild fierce mellay when none think, — and yet 
I see him, — see him reeling ; never can forget 
His large eyes' sudden change, that one long cry ! 
'T was but a moment, and the charge went by. 
Some unknown woman curses me in sleep, 
Mother or mistress ; why does memory keep 
These nettles, let the roses fall ? Well ! well ! 
What more, De Luce ? The tale you have to tell 
Is told a friend ! 



Three bitter years ago 
A woman every year more fair, one Isabeau, 
A Demoiselle De Meilleraye, began 
To twist this coil which later cost a man 
A pleasant reckless life, and you my tale. 
Maids have I loved a many, widows frail 
Loved par amour, but this one gayly spun 
A pretty net about me. It was done 
Before I fully knew, and once begun 
No fly more surely netted. Ever still 
The web is on me. At her merry will 
What pranks she played ! — and I a fettered slave 
Was black or white, was all things blithe or grave 
As met her humour. Many a suitor came 
Because her lands were broad, and, too, the game 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON., 2J 

Worth any candle. She but laughed. Some flared, 

Or sputtered, and went out. My lady shared 

Their woe but little. As for me, I fought 

A good half dozen lordlings, also caught 

A hurt or two. But then, ah ! that was worse, 

A fellow came who wooed my dame in verse, 

And did it neatly, — made her triolets 

Rhyming her great blue eyes to violets ; 

Wrote chansons, villanelles, and rondelettes, 

Sonnets, and other stuff, and chansonnettes, 

And jesting, rhymed the colour of my nose 

With something, — possibly an o'erblown rose. 

No need to say we fought, but luck went hard, 

I thrust in tierce. He parried, broke my guard, 

And then, I slipped, — St. Denis ! but I lay 

A good six weeks to ponder on the way 

The rascal did the thing. And he the while 

Had to himself my lady's gracious smile ; 

Whereon we played the game again, and time 

Was that to which my rhymer ceased to rhyme. 

A pretty trick there is, De Lille, you see 

I learned in Padua ; this way, on one knee 

To drop a sudden • then a thrust in quarte 

Settles the business. You shall learn the art. 

'T is very simple. Ah ! before he died 

He fumbled at his neck, and vainly tried 

To snatch at something, till at last I took 

A locket from him, for his own hand shook, 

As well might be. He had but only breath 



28 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

To mutter feebly u Isabeau," then death 

Had him, and I the locket — have it still, 

And some day she shall have it — in my will, 

For scourge of memory. This same Isabeau 

Wept as a woman does, whilst to and fro 

I wandered, waiting till the mood should go, 

Then came again and found my lady fair 

Reading my dead man's chansons. Little care 

Had she for others. I, a love-fool, spent 

The summer days like any boy, intent 

To fit my will to hers. I laugh again 

To think I vexed my battle-wildered brain 

In search of rhymes. — You smile, my lord ? 'T is so, 

To find me gallant rhymes to Isabeau. 

Pardie, De Lille, she rhymed it thrice to — No ! 

Swore none could love who lacked the joyous art 

To love in song. 

Now, really when the heart 
Gives out, and knows no more, one asks the head 
To help that idiot ass. Some one has said, — 
Ah ! that man said it, — said, " 'T is heads that win 
In love's chuck-penny game." And I had been 
The heart's fool quite too long. — 

At last, one day, 
Hunting by St. Rileaux, I lost my way, 
And wandering, lit upon a man who lay 
Drowsing, or drunk, or dreaming mid the fern. 
Quite motionless he stayed, as in I turn, 
And say, " Get up there, villein ! Ho ! in there, — 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 29 

Get up, and pilot me the way to Claire ! " 

On this rose lazily a lean, long man ; 

Yawned, stretched himself, — with eyes as brown as tan, 

And somewhat insolent, regarded me ; a nose 

Fine as my lady's ; red, too, I suppose, 

With sun, or just so much of sun as glows 

Shut up in wine : and thus far not a word. 

Till I, not over gay, or somewhat stirred 

By this brute's careless fashions, wrathful said, 

" Art dumb, thou dog ? " But he untroubled laid 

His elbow 'gainst a tree trunk, set his hand 

To prop his head, and then, — 

" I understand. 
You lost the way to Claire, while I have lost 
The gladdest thought that haply ever crossed 
A poet's brain. Think what it is, fair sir, 
To feel within your soul a gentle stir, 
To see a vision forming as from mist, 
And just then as your lips have almost kissed 
This thing of heaven, to have a man insist 
You show the way to Claire. A man may die 
And still the world go on, but songs that fly 
From laughing lip to lip, and make folk glad, 
Have more than mortal life. 'T is passing sad. 
You 've killed a thing had outlived you and me, 
Bishops and kings, and danced a voice of glee 
On lovers' tongues." Loudly I laughed and long. 
" Mad ! mad ! " I cried ; " the whole world 's mad in 
song. 



30 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

Out-memory kings ? What noble trade have you 

That rate a king so low ? Speak out, or rue 

The hour we met. Your name, your name, man, too, 

Unless you like sore bones." At this he stayed, 

No more disturbed than I, and undismayed 

Said, " Francois Villon de Montcorbier 

Men call me ; but I really cannot say 

I have not other names to suit at need, 

As certain great folks have ; and sir, indeed 

As to my trade, I am a spinner, and I spin, 

As please my moods, gay songs of love or sin, 

Sonnets or psalms — could make a verse on you. 

Hast ever heard my ' Ballade des Pendus ' ? 

I gave the verse a certain swing, you see, 

That humours well the subject ; you '11 agree 

To read it really shakes one ; many a thief 

That verse has set a-praying. To be brief — 

Ah, you '11 not hear it ? — then, sir, by my sword, — 

But that 's in pawn, — or better, by my word, — 

I can't pawn that, — ye saints ! if I but could ! 

Now just to pay your patience, — leave the wood 

At yonder turning ; then the road to Claire 

Lies to the left ; but you must be aware 

The day is somewhat warm, and pray you try 

To think how very, how unnatural dry 

I am inside of me ; for outwardly, 

Thanks to the dews, I 'm damp ; but could I put 

My outside inside, — Ah ! your little but 

Is really quite a philosophic thing 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 3 1 

For lords who lose their way, and men who sing. 

The simple fact is, I am deadly dry — 

And that mere text once out, the sole reply, 

The sermon, lies within your purse." I said, 

" Had you not put a notion in my head, 

I long ago had broken yours. Instead, 

Sell me its use awhile." " If talk be dull," 

Cried he, " 'twixt one who fasts and one who 's full, 

St. George ! 't is duller than the dullest worst 

When one of them is just corpse-dry with thirst. 

Once, by great Noah ! a certain bishop-beast 

Kept me for three long summer months at least 

On bread and water, — water ! Were wine rain 

I never, never could catch up again." 

Well, to be brief, De Lille, just there and then 

We drove an honest bargain. He, his pen 

Sold for so long as need was, — I, to get 

Three times a week some joyful rondelette, 

Sirventes satiric, competent to fit 

The case of any wooing, versing wit, 

Dizains, rondeaux, and haply pastourelles, 

With any other rhyming devil-spells 

A well-soaked brain might hatch, whilst I agreed 

To house, clothe, wine the man, and feed. 

That day we settled it at Claire. A tun 

Of Burgundy it took before 't was done. 

And then, to ease him at his task, you know, 

Smiling he queried of this Isabeau : 

Her eyes, her lips, her hair ; because, forsooth, 



32 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

" The trap of lies were baited best with truth." 
Quoth I, half vexed, " Brown-red, her hair." " I 

know," 
My poet says ; " gold — darkened, like the glow 
The sunset casts, to crown a brow of snow." 
Then I, a love-sick fool ! — " She has a way — 
Of " — " Yes, I understand ; as lilies sway 
When south winds flatter, and the month is May, 
And love words has the maiden rose to say." 
Here pausing, suddenly he let his head 
Rest on his hands, and, half in whisper, said, 
" Alack ! Full many a year the daisies grow 
Where rests at peace another Isabeau." 
" The devil take thy memories ! Guard thy tongue ! " 
Said I. What chanced was droll, for quick tears, wrung 
From some low love-past, tumbled in his wine : 
Cried he, " The saints weep through us. Can these 

tears be mine ? 
The dead are kings and rule us " — drank the liquor 

up, 
Laughed outright like a girl, and turned the cup, 
With "Never yet before, since life was young, 
Did I put water in my wine," then flung 
The glass behind him, shouted, " Quick, a bottle ! — 
Another; grief is but a thief to throttle. 
Ho ! let the ancient hangman Time appear 
And tuck it a neat tie beneath the ear. 

Many a trade has master Time. 

He sits in corners, and spinneth rhyme. 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 33 

He is a partner of master Death, 

Puffs man's candle out with a breath, 

Leaves the wick to sputter and tell 

In a sort of odorous epitaph 

How foul the thought of a man may smell 

For the world that lives, and has its laugh. 

Ha ! but Time has many trades ! 

Something in me now persuades 

Master Time, grown debonair, 

Hath turned for me a potter rare, 

And made him a vase beyond compare : 

Here below, a rounded waist, 

Fit with roses to be laced ; 

Rising, ripely curved above 

Into flowing lines of love. 

Thinking, too, how sweet 't would grow, 

Time called the proud vase Isabeau." 
" By every saint of rhyme," laughed I, " good fellow, 
If this a man can do when rather mellow " — 
" What shall he do ripe-drunk ? " he cried ; " erelong 
The vine shall live again a flower of song." 
How much he drank that six months who may know ? 
He kept his word. There came a noble flow, — 
Rondels and sonnets, songs, gay fabliaux, 
Tencils, and virelais, and chants royaux, 
That turned at last the head of Isabeau. 
For, by and by, he spun a languid lay 
Set her a weeping for an April day. 
And then a reverdie, I scarcely knew 
3 



34 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

Just what it meant ; by times the damsel grew 
Pensive and tender, till at last she said, — 
You see the bait was very nicely spread, — 
" How chances it, fair sir, this gift of song 
Lay thus perdu ? You did yourself a wrong : 
But now I love you, — love as one well may 
A heart that hides its treasures, yet can say 
At last their sweetness out. This simple lay ! — 
How could you know my thoughts ? " 

On this in haste 
I cast an arm around her little waist, 
And kissed her lips, and murmured tenderly 
Some pretty lines my poet made for me, 
And this occasion's chance. 

So there, the dame 
Well wooed and married, ends this pleasant game. 



I knew your poet once, — of knaves the chief, 

A gallows-mocking brawler, guzzler, thief, — 

This orphan of the devil won with song 

Our good Duke Charles, who thinks of no man wrong, 

And least of all a poet. Once or twice 

Duke Charles has saved his neck. One can't be nice 

With poet friends, nor leave them in the lurch 

Because they stab a man, or rob a church. 

Also, that hog-priest-doctor, Rabelais, 

Kept him a while, then bade the vagrant go 

For half a nightingale and half a crow. 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 35 

So there he slips from sight. Then comes a tale 
That stirs our rhyming Duke. I must not fail 
To know the sequel. 



Months went by. My man 
I had no need for ; soon my dame began 
To droop and wilt, and, too, I knew not why, 
To watch me side wise with attentive eye, 
Or stay for silent hours cloaked with thought, 
Laughing or weeping readily at naught. 
What changes women ? A wife is just a wife. 
The thing tormented me, for now her life 
Faced from me ever, and, her head bent low, 
She lived with some worn sonnet or rondeau 
Had served its purpose. Vexed at last, I took 
The wretched stuff, the whole of it, and shook 
The fragments to the winds. Now, by St. George ! 
The thing stuck ever bitter in my gorge, 
That such a peasant-slave's mere words should be 
The one strong bond that held this love to me, 
That was my life, and is. Alas ! in vain 
I played the lover over, till in pain 
Because she pined, poor fool, I sought again 
My butt of verse and wine, and gayly said, 
" Here, fellow, there 's for drink ! Set me your head 
To verse me something honest, that shall speak 
A strong man's love, and to my lady's cheek 
Fetch back its rose again." But as for him, 



36 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

This hound, he studied me with red eyes, dim 
And dulled with wine, and lightly laughing cried, 
" Not I, my lord. Not ever, if I tried 
The longest day of June. Your falcon caught, 
Be sure no jesses by another wrought 
Will hold a captive ; " and with rambling talk 
Put me aside, sang, hummed, took up the chalk 
The landlord wont to score his drinks withal, 
A moment paused, and scribbled on the wall, 
" If God love to a sexton gave, 
Surely he would dig it a grave ; 
If God fitted an ass with wings, 
What would he do with the pretty things ? " 
I cursed him for a useless sot, but he, 
Leering and heedless, scrawled unsteadily 
Just " Wallow, wallow, wallow, this from me 
To all wise pigs that on this mad earth be ; " 
Wrote " Francois Villon " underneath, and there, 
Smitten with drink, dropped on the nearest chair 
And slept as sleep the dead. I in despair 
Went on my way. 

But she, my gentle dame, 
Grew slowly feebler, like an oilless flame, 
Until this cursed thing happened. On a day 
I chanced upon her singing, joyous gay ; 
Glad leapt my hopes. I kissed her, saw her start, 
Grow sudden pale, a quick hand on her heart. — 
'Fore God I love her dearly, but I tore 
A paper from her bosom, yet forbore 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 37 

One darkened moment's time to read it, then 
Saw the wild love verse, knew what drunken pen 
Had dared. — 

Fierce-eyed she stayed a little space, 
Then struck me red with words, as if my face 
A man had struck, saying, " What can be more base 
Than bribe a peasant soul to win with thought 
Above your thinking what you vainly sought ? 
/love you ? No — I loved the man who knew 
To tell the gladness of his love through you ; 
A thief, no doubt ; and pray what was he who 
Thus stole my love ? You lied ! and he, a sot ! 
A sot, you say, could rise above his pot, — 
You never ! Love me ! Could one like you know 
In love's sweet climate truth and honour grow? " 
But I, seeing my folly clear, said, " Isabeau, 
What matters it if I but used the flow 
Of this man's fantasies to word the praise 
I would have said a hundred eager ways 
And moved you never ? Is it rare one pays 
A man to sing ? " 

"Henceforth, my lord," said she, 
" We talk tongues strange to each, but ever he 
Talked that my heart knows best. Your wife am I, 
That 's past earth's mending ; what is left but try 
To weary on to death ? What else ? " I turned, 
Cried, " But I loved you well ! This boor has earned 
A traitor's fate." 

" And you," she moaned ; nor more, 



38 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

Save, " Let all traitors die," and on the floor 
Fell in a heap. 

Thenceforward half distraught 
I sought my poet thief, but never caught 
The cunning fiend, till as it chanced one night, 
My horse fallen lame, I, walking, saw the light 
Still in her window. There below it stood 
A man where fell the moonlight all aflood, 
And suddenly a hand of mastery swept 
The zittern, and — a whining love song leapt. 
Ah ! but too well knew I the song he sang ; 
I smiled to think it was his last. It rang 
Mad chimes within my head. " Now then," I cried, 
"A dog-life for a love-life ! " Quick aside 
My poet cast his zittern, drew his sword, 
Tried as he stood his footing on the sward, 
And laughed. He ever laughed, and laughing said, 
" Before we two cut throats, and one is dead, 
And talk gets quite one-sided, let me speak, 
Perchance it may be this rat's final squeak ; 
Even a cat grants that, my lord, you know. 
Speak certain words I must of this dame Isabeau. 
An if you will not, this have I to say, 
These legs of mine have ofttimes won the day, 
And may again if I have not my way. 
My thanks. You 're very good, and now, — what if 
Full twenty dozen times a week a whiff 
Of some sweet rose is given just to smell, 
The rose unseen, — you catch my meaning ? — Well, 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 39 

One haply gets rose-hungry, and erelong 
Desires the rose. You think I did you wrong 
Who bade me see her as one sees in song, 
Her neck, her face, the sun-gloss of her hair, 
Eyes such as poets dream, the love-curves fair; 
These have you seen, but as for me, they were 
Unseen of sense more lovely. 

Mark, my lord, 
How sweet to-night the lilies. Pray afford 
A moment yet to my life out of yours. Believe 
A thing so strange you may not, nor conceive : 
This woman, on the beauty of whose face 
I never looked, nor shall, — whose virgin grace 
I sold to you, — is mine while time endures. 
Yea, for thy malady earth has no cures ; 
A brute, a thief am I that caged this love. 
A sodden poet ! Some one from above 
Looks on us both to-night ; you nobly born, 
I in the sties of life. I do repent 
In that I wronged this lady innocent. 
But if you live or I, where'er she bide, 
One Francois Villon walketh at her side. 
Kiss her 1 Your kiss ? It will be I who kiss. 
Yea, every dream of love your life shall miss 
I shall be dreaming ever ! 

Well, the cat, 
Patient or not, has waited. As for that 
Be comforted. Hell never lacks reward 
For them that serve it. Thanks. — On guard. On 
guard." 



40 MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 

No word said I. Long had I listened, dazed. 
Now scorn broke out in hatred ; crazed, 
Fiercely I lunged. He laughing, scarce so rash, 
Parried and touched my arm. The rapier clash 
Went wild a minute ; then a woman's cry 
Broke from the hedge behind him, and near by 
Some moonlit whiteness gleamed. He turned, and I, 
By heaven ! 't was none too soon, I drove my sword 
Clean through the peasant dog from point to guard, 
And held her as I watched him. Better men 
A many have I killed, but this man ! — Then 
He staggered, reeling, clutched at empty air 
And at his breast, and pitching here and there, 
Fell, shuddered, and was dead. 

By Mary's grace, 
The woman kneeling kissed the dead dog's face ! 

Take you the Duke my tale. The woman lives. 
The man is dead. None know but she. What gives 
Such needless haste to go ? 'T is not yet late. 
Think you the story of this peasant's fate 
Will vex Duke Charles ? How looks the thing to 

you ? 
No comment ? None ? 



None I could well afford 
To speak. The Duke must judge, not I. 



MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON. 4 1 



DE LUCE. 

My lord, 
Your fashions like me not, and plainly, mine 
Are somewhat franker. 



DE LILLE. 

I must ride. The wine ? 



I pay for that. The man who drinks must pay, 

" The wine of friendship lasteth but a day," 

So said that pot-house Solomon. I suppose 

'T is easily thinned with time. As this world goes, 

A sorry vintage. 



42 HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING. 



HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS 
KING. 

Once in a garden space, Saadi saith, 
I came upon a tower, where within 
There lay a king imprisoned until death 
Should set him free ; and thinking deep of sin, 
And those who took its madness to and fro 
Below the dead hope of these prison bars, 
I saw the thoughtless stream of pleasure flow 
Till evening, and the sad reproachful stars 
Loosed a great sorrow on me for this king 
To whom in other days I joyed to sing. 
Himself had trained himself to noble use 
Of that great instrument, a man ; abuse 
Of power he knew not ; never one 
So served victorious virtue. Then there came 
Defeat and ruin. Now no more the sun 
Shall see again his face who reckoned fame 
As but an accident of righteous deeds. 
Thus evening found me thinking how exceeds 
Man's strangest dream, what Allah wills for him, 
Till through the shadows of the twilight dim 



HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING. 43 

I heard the gray muezzin call to prayer. 

Upon the sands I knelt alone, and there 

Entreated Allah till the middle hour. 

Among the palms that were around the tower 

Came, as if pitiful, the nightingale, 

And sang and sang as if 't were sin to fail ; 

Whilst I who loved this great soul come to naught 

Stayed wondering if any solace brought 

The happy song that knows not pain of thought. 

But then I heard above me, clear and strong, 

The king's voice rising gather force of song, 

Till from the prison wall its tameless power 

Triumphant rang, as in some doubtful hour 

Of angry battle, or when from defeat 

It called again the shame of flying feet. 

Now like a war drum rolling far away 

Its stormy rhythms died. No voice may say 

Its after sweetness, for, as falls a bird 

That high in air hath on a sudden heard 

Its little ones below, and surely guessed 

The lonely sadness of the yearning nest, 

Fell earthward pitiful the singer's verse, 

Cradled the many griefs of man, the curse 

Of pain, of sin, and in its soothing rhyme 

Rocked into peace these petty woes of time. 

Till I, who would have given a caliph's gold 

For consolation, was myself consoled. 

Musing, I said, " Lo ! I will be this king, 

Because a poet can be anything, 



44 HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING. 

And may inhabit for a wilful hour 

A maiden heart, or haunt a dewy flower, 

Or be the murdered, or the murderer's hate." 

I gathered up all knowledge, small or great, 

Men had of him who sang, when his estate 

Knew power and its danger. How he ruled 

A wayward race I knew ; how sternly schooled 

His gentleness to give large justice sway ; 

How helped the kindly arts of peace, and gay 

And masterful of all that makes life sweet, 

The jewel love set in this crown complete. 

These, and much other garnered up from thought, 

I took — and lo, how strange ! A moment brought 

The whole to oneness, as when on a glass 

The sun-rays fall, and bent together pass, 

And glowing, flash a point of burning light ; 

So, for a time I was the king that night. 

A king was I, — a king of Allah's birth, 
In one brief hour I lived long years of earth. 
I broke the robber tribes who vexed with wrong 
My peaceful folk. Yea, as the simoon strong 
That hurls the sands of death, in will and deed 
A king I rode. Then saw my regal state 
Fall from me ruined, and a brutal fate 
Wreck law and justice ; with a tranquil face 
Beheld die out of life its joy and grace, 
And quick death busy with whate'er I loved. 
All these I saw, but with a heart unmoved, 



HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING. 45 

And marvelled at myself, as in a dream 
A man hath wonder when his visions seem 
Fitting and true to sense. And so erelong, 
Considering what fault had let the wrong 
O'ercome the right, I lost myself in song. 

Am I the potter ? Am I the clay ? 
Allah, Thou knowest ! Soft and gray 
Fall the curling shreds away. 
Lo, the noiseless feet of years 
Swift the rhythmic treadle ply ; 
Hath the potter doubts and fears ? 
Is the clay kept soft with tears ? 
Still the busy wheel doth fly. 
He is the potter, I am the clay ; 
Swiftly drop the ribands gray, 
Flower and vine leaf silently grow, 
Strong and gracious the vase doth show, 
Firm and large, — the cup of a king. 
Hither and thither wandering 
The potter's fingers deftly smooth 
Tangled tracery, and groove 
Emblems, texts, the rose of love. 
Suddenly his fingers slip, 
Cracks the ever-thinning lip. 
Was it the potter ? Was it the clay ? 
Allah ! Allah ! who can say ? 
And the king I was that night 
Smiled, to see the potter's plight. 



46 HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING. 

I am the potter, I am the clay, 

Spinning fall the earth-threads gray, 

Deftly moulded, strong and tall 

Grows the vase, and over all 

Bud and roses, vine and grape, 

Twine around its comely shape. 

Was it potter ? Was it clay ? 

Did the potter's hand betray 

Indecision ? Who can say ? 

At his feet the fragments roll ; 

Lo, beside the wheel he stands 

Wondering, with idle hands. 

Let him gather up his soul 

And make the clay a poor man's bowl ! 

Thus said the quiet king I was that night, 
And o'er me grew the life of morning light, 
While from the constant minaret above, 
As drops a feather from the angel love, 
Fell the first call to prayer, and overhead 
A strong voice from the prison tower said, 
" Allah il Allah ! God is ever great. 
Time is his prophet for the souls who wait." 



A PSALM OF THE WATERS. 47 



A PSALM OF THE WATERS. 

Lo ! this is a psalm of the waters, — 

The wavering, wandering waters : 

With languages learned in the forest, 

With secrets of earth's lonely caverns, 

The mystical waters go by me 

On errands of love and of beauty, 

On embassies friendly and gentle, 

With shimmer of brown and of silver. 

In pools of dark quiet they ponder, 

Where the birch, and the elm, and the maple 

Are dreams in the soul of their stillness. 

In eddying spirals they loiter, 

For touch of the fern-plumes they linger, 

Caress the red mesh of the pine roots, 

And quench the strong thirst of the leafage 

That high overhead with its shadows 

Requites the soft touch of their giving 

Like him whose supreme benediction 

Made glad for love's service instinctive 

The heart of the Syrian woman. 

O company, stately and gracious, 



48 A PSALM OF THE WATERS. 

That wait the sad axe on the hillside ! 
My kinsmen since far in the ages 
We tossed, you and I, as dull atoms 
The sport of the wind and the water. 
We are as a greater has made us, 
You less and I more ; yet forever 
The less is the giver, and thankful, 
The guest of your quivering shadows, 
I welcome the counselling voices 
That haunt the dim aisles of the forest. 

Lo, this is a psalm of the waters 

That wake in us yearnings prophetic, 

That cry in the wilderness lonely 

With meanings for none but the tender. 

I hear in the rapids below me 

Gay voices of little ones playing, 

And echoes of boisterous laughter 

From grim walls of resonant granite. 

'T is gone — it is here — this wild music ! 

Untamed by the ages, as gladsome 

As when, from the hands of their Maker, 

In wild unrestraint the swift waters 

Leapt forth to the bountiful making 

Of brook and of river and ocean. 

I linger, I wonder, I listen. 

Alas ! is it I who interpret 

The cry of the masterful north wind, 

The hum of the rain in the hemlock, 



A PSALM OF THE WATERS. 49 

As chorals of joy or of sadness, 
To match the mere moods of my being ? 
Alas for the doubt and the wonder ! 
Alas for the strange incompleteness 
That limits with boundaries solemn 
The questioning soul ! Yet forever 
I know that these choristers ancient 
Have touch of my heart ; and alas, too, 
That never was love in its fulness 
Told all the great soul of its loving ! 
I know, too, the years, that remorseless 
Have hurt me with sorrow, bring ever 
More near for my help the quick healing, 
The infinite comfort of nature ; 
For surely the childhood that enters 
This heaven of wood and of water 
Is won with gray hairs, in the nearing 
That home ever open to childhood. 

And you, you my brothers, who suffer 
In serfdom of labour and sorrow, 
What gain have your wounds, that forever 
Man bridges with semblance of knowledge 
The depths he can never illumine ? 
Or binds for his service the lightning, 
Or prisons the steam of the waters ? 
What help has it brought to the weeper ? 
How lessened the toil of the weary ? 
Alas ! since at evening, deserted, 
4 



50 A PSALM OF THE WATERS. 

Job sat in his desolate anguish, 

The world has grown wise ; but the mourner 

Still weeps and will weep ; and what helping 

He hath from his God or his fellow 

Eludes the grave sentinel reason, 

Steals in at the heart's lowly portal, 

And helps, but will never be questioned. 

Yea, then, let us take what they give us, 

And ask not to know why the murmur 

Of winds in the pine-tree has power 

To comfort the hurt of life's battle, 

To help when our dearest are helpless. 

Lo, here stands the mother. She speaketh 

As when at his tent door the Arab 

Calls, Welcome ! in language we know not j 

Cries, Enter, and share with thy servant ! 



COLERIDGE AT CHAMOUNY. 



COLERIDGE AT CHAMOUNY. 

I would I knew what ever happy stone 
Of all these dateless records, gray and vast, 
Keeps silent memory of that sunrise lone 
When, lost to earth, the soul of Coleridge passed 
From earthly time to one immortal hour : 
There thought's faint stir woke echoes of the mind 
That broke to thunder tones of mightier power 
From depths and heights mysterious, undefined ; 
As when the soft snows, drifting from the rock, 
Rouse the wild clamour of the avalanche shock. 

Who may not envy him that awful morn 
When marvelling at his risen self he trod, 
And thoughts intense as pain were fiercely born, 
Till rose his soul in one great psalm to God. 
A man to-morrow weak as are the worst, 
A man to whom all depths, all heights belong, 
Now with too bitter hours of weakness cursed, 
Now winged with vigour, as a giant strong 
To take our groping hearts with tender hand, 
And set them surely where God's angels stand. 



52 COLERIDGE AT CHAMOUNY. 

On peaks of lofty contemplation raised, 

Such as shall never see earth's common son, 

High as the snowy altar which he praised, 

An hour's creative ecstasy he won. 

Yet, in this frenzy of the lifted soul 

Mocked him the nothingness of human speech, 

When, through his being visions past control 

Swept, strong as mountain streams. — Alas ! To reach 

Words equal-winged as thought to none is given, 

To none of earth to speak the tongue of heaven. 

The eagle-flight of genius gladness hath, 
And joy is ever with its victor swoop 
Through sun and storm. Companionless its path 
In earthly realms, and, when its pipions droop, 
Faint memories only of the heavenly sun, 
Dim records of ethereal space it brings 
To show how haughty was the height it won, 
To prove what freedom had its airy wings. 
This is the curse of genius, that earth's night 
Dims the proud glory of its heavenward flight. 
1888. 



DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 53 



DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 2 

In his cheerful Norman orchard 
Lay De Gourgues of Mont Marsan, 
Gascon to the core, and merry, 
Just a well-contented man, 

With his pipe, that comrade constant, 
Won in sorrowful Algiers, 
In the slave's brief rest at evening 
Left for curses and for tears. 

Peacefully he pondered, gazing 
Where his plough-ribbed cornfields lay, 
With their touch of hopeful verdure, 
Waiting patient for the May. 

Joyous from the terrace o'er him 
Came the voice of wife and child, 
And the sunlit smoke curled upward 
As the gaunt old trooper smiled. 

" St. Denis," quoth the stout De Gourgues, 
" Yon beehive's ever busy hum 



54 DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 

Doth like me better than the noise 
Of the musketoon and drum. 

" Tough am I, though this skin of mine 
By steel and bullet well is scarred, 
Like those round pippins overhead 
By the thrushes pecked and marred. 

" Forsooth I 'm somewhat Autumn-ripe, 
Yet like my apples sound and red. 
And life is sweet," said stout De Gourgues, 

" Yea, verily sweet," he said. 

" Three things there were I once did love — 
One that gay jester of Navarre, 
And one to sack a Spanish town, 
And one the wild wrath of war. 

u And two there were I hated well 
One that carrion beast a Moor, 
And one that passeth him for spite, 
That 's a Spaniard, rest you sure." 

Still he smoked, and musing murmured, 
" There be three things well I like, 
My pipe, my ease, this quiet life, 
Better far than push of pike. 

" And to-day there be two I love 
Who lured me out of the strife, 



DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 55 

The lad who plays with my rusty blade, 
And the little Gascon wife. 



" Parbleu ! parbleu ! " cried gray De Gourgues, 
For at his side there stood 
A soldier, scarred and worn and white, 
In a cuirass dark with blood. 

" Ventre Saint Gris ! good friend, halloa ! 
Art sorely hurt, and how ? and why ? 
Art Huguenot ? Here 's help at need, 
Or Catholic ? What care I ! " 

No motion had the white wan lips, 
The mail-clad chest no breathing stirred, 
Though clear as rings a vengeful blade 
Fell every whispered word. 

" That Jean Ribaut am I 
Who sailed for the land of flowers, 
Fore God our tryst is surely set ; 
I wearily count the hours." 

And slowly rose the steel-clad hand, 
And westward pointing stayed as set : 
" Thy peace is gone ! No morn shall dawn 
Will let thee e'er forget. 

"Thy brothers, the dead, lie there, 
Where only the winds complain, 



56 DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 

And under their gallows walk 
The mocking lords of Spain. 

" They wait, these patient dead ; 
They see, as dead men see, 
The woman's endless tears, 
The infant's careless glee. 

" If ever this France be dear, 
And honour as life to thee, 
Wife and child are naught to-day, 
Thy errand 's on the sea." 

" St. Denis to save ! " cried stout De Gourgues, 
" One may dream, it seems, by day." 

The man was gone ! — but where he stood 

A rusted steel glove lay. 

" I 've heard — yea twice — this troublous tale, 
It groweth full old indeed ; 
But old or new my sword is sheathed 
For ghost or king or creed." 

Full slow he turned and climbed the hill, 
And thrice looked back to see : 
" The dream ! The glove ! — How came it there ? 
What matters a glove to me ? " 

But day by day as one distraught 
He stood, or gazed upon the board ; 



DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 57 

Nor heard the voice of wife or boy, 
Nor took of the wine they poured. 

He saw his bannerol flutter forth, 
As tossed by the wind of fight, 
And watched his sword above the hearth 
Leap flashing to the light. 

He told her all. " Now God be praised ! " 
She cried, while the hot tears ran ; 
" She little loves who loves not more 
His honour than the man." 

His lands are sold. A stranger's hand 
The juice of his grapes shall strain ; 
Another, too, shall reap the hopes 
He sowed with the winter grain. 

His way was o'er the windy seas, 
But, sailed they fast or sailed they slow, 
He saw by day, he saw by night, 
The face of Jean Ribaut. 

The sun rose crimson with the morn, 
Or set at eve a ghastly red, 
While over blue Bahama seas 
Beckoned him ever the dead. 

Till spoke, sore set at last, De Gourgues : 
" Ho, brothers brave, and have ye sailed 



58 DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 

For gain of gold this weary way ? 
Heaven's grace ! but ye have failed ! 

" A sterner task our God hath set ; 
In yon wild land of flowers 
Our dead await the trusty blades 
Shall cleanse their fame and ours. 

" Ye know the tale." Few words they said 
" We are thine for France to-day ! " 

By cape and beach and palmy isles 

The avengers held their way. 

The deed was done, the honour won, 
Nor land nor gain of gold got they, 
Where 'neath the broad palmetto leaves 
Their dead at evening lay. 

The deed was done, the honour won, 
And o'er the gibbet-loads was set 
This legend grim for priests to read, 
And, if they could, forget. 

" Not as to Spaniards : murderers these. 
Ladrones, robbers, hanged I here, 
Ransom base for the costly souls 
Whom God and France hold dear." 

How welcomed him that brave Rochelle, 
With cannon thunder and clash of bell, 



DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES. 59 

What bitter fate his courage won, 
Some slender annals tell. 

No legend tells what signal sweet 
Looked gladness from a woman's eyes, 
Or how she welcomed him who brought 
Alas ! one only prize, — 

A noble deed in honour done 
And the wreck of a ruined life. 
Ah, well if I knew what said the lips 
Of the little Gascon wife ! 
i8qo. 



60 THE WA VES A T MIDNIGHT. 



THE WAVES AT MIDNIGHT. 

THE CLIFFS, NEWPORT. 

Seen in the night by 

Their snows, as they crush, 

Evermore saying — 

Hush — hush — hush — 

They fall, and they die, 

Break, and perish, without reply. 

And are and are not, 

And come back again 

With the sob and throb 

Of a constant pain, 

And snatch from afar 

The tremulous light of a single star. 

Always the cliffs hear, 

How mournfully sweet 

Their murmurous music, 

Their cry of defeat, 

As near and more near 

They shiver and die in darkness drear. 



THE WAVES AT MIDNIGHT. 6 1 

Bleaker the cliffs be, 
And blacker the night, 
Where tender with sorrow, 
Where eager for light, 
The waves of life's sea 

Wail, crushed at an answerless cliff-wall for me. 
1889. 



62 SEPTEMBER. 



SEPTEMBER. 

Sir Goldenrod stands by and grieves 
Where Queen September goeth by : 
Her viewless feet disturb the leaves, 
And with her south the thrushes fly, 
Or loiter 'mid the rustling sheaves, 
And search and fail, and wonder why. 
The burgher cat-tails stiffly bow 
Beside the marsh. The asters cast 
Their purple coronets, and below 
The brown ferns shiver in the blast, 
And all the fretted pool aglow 
Repeats the cold, clear, yellow sky. 
The dear, loved summer days are past, 
And tranquil goes the Queen to die. 



BEAVER TAIL ROCKS. 6$ 



BEAVER TAIL ROCKS. 

CANONICUT. 

Fare forth my soul, fare forth, and take thy'own ; 

The silver morning and the golden eve 

Wait, as the virgins waited to receive 

The bridegroom and the bride, with roses strown ; 

Fare forth and lift her veil, — the bride is joy alone ! 

To thee the friendly hours with her shall bring 

The changeless trust that bird and poet sing ; 

Her dower to-day shall be the asters sown 

On breezy uplands ; hers the vigour brought 

Upon the north-wind's wing, and hers for thee 

A stately heritage of land and sea, 

And all that nature hath, and all the great have 

thought, 
While low she whispers like a sea-born shell 
Things that thy love may hear but never tell. 
1889. 



64 OCTOBER. 



OCTOBER. 

Stay, gentle sunshine, stay ; 
Sweet west wind bide awhile : 
Nay, linger, and my maid 
Shall bribe you with a smile. 

Sweet sun and west wind stay, 
You know not what you miss ; 
Nay, linger, and my maid 
Shall pay you with a kiss. 
1890. 



YOU AND I. 65 



YOU AND I. 

What would you say 
If you were I, 
And I were near, 
And no one by ; 
If you were I ? 

What would you do 
If you were I, 
And night were dark, 
And none were nigh ? 
What would you do ? 

What would I say 
If I were you, 
And none were near, 
And love were true ? 
What would I say ? 

What would I do ? 
Just only this. 
And on my cheek 

■y 5 



66 YOU AND I. 

Soft lit a kiss. 
This did she do ! 

I heard a cry, 

And through the night 

Saw far away 

A gleam of white, 

And there was I ! 

But not again 
This she was I ; 
Yet still I loved, 
And years went by. 
Ah, not again ! 
1890. 



TENNYSON. 6? 



TENNYSON. 

The larks of song that high o'erhead 
Sung joyous in my boyhood's sky, 
Save one, are with the silent dead, 
Those larks that knew to soar so high. 

But still with ever surer flight, 
One laureate of unfailing trust 
Chants at the gates of morn and night 
Great songs that lift us from the dust, 

And heavenward call tired hearts that grieve, 
Beneath the vast horizon given 
With larger breadth of morn and eve, 
To this one lark alone in heaven. 
1890. 



68 THE CARRY. 



THE CARRY. 

NIPIGON. 

Blue is the sky overhead, 
Blue with the northland's pallor, 
Never a cloud in sight, 
Naught but the moon's gray sickle ; 
And ever around me gray, — 
Ashes, and rock, and lichen. 
Far as the sick eye searches 
Ghastly trunks, that were trees once, 
Up to their bony branches 
Carry the gray of ruin. 
Lo ! where across the mountain 
Swept the scythe of the wind-fall, 
Moss of a century's making 
Lies on this death-swath lonely, 
Where in grim heaps the wood sachems, 
Like to the strange dead of battle, 
Stay, with their limbs ever rigid 
Set in the doom-hour of anguish. 
Far and away o'er this waste land 
Wanders a trail through gray bowlders, 
Brown to the distant horizon. 
1870. 



OF A POET. 69 



OF A POET. 

WRITTEN FOR A CHILD. 

He sang of brooks, and trees, and flowers, 
Of mountain tarns, of wood-wild bowers, 
The wisdom of the starry skies, 
The mystery of childhood's eyes, 
The violet's scent, the daisy's dress, 
The timid breeze's shy caress. 
Whilst England waged her fiery wars 
He praised the silence of the stars, 
And clear and sweet as upland rills 
The gracious wisdom of her hills. 
Save once when Clifford's fate he sang, 
And bugle-like his lyric rang, 
He prized the ways of lowly men, 
And trod, with them, the moor and fen. 
Fair Nature to this lover dear 
Bent low to whisper or to hear 
The secrets of her sky and earth, 
In gentle Words of golden Worth. 



yo NOTES. 



NOTES. 

1 Francis Villon, born 1431, poet, thief, vagabond, led a life 
of excesses, in which were sharp experiences of prison and the 
torture - chamber. His ballad " Des Pendus" was written in 
1461, whilst he was under sentence of death. Soon after he 
is lost to history, and becomes fair subject for the imagination. 
There is not the least foundation in any known facts for the 
story I have labelled with his name. 

2 In 1565, Menendez, an officer of Philip II. in Florida, put to 
death, under circumstances of strange atrocity, two hundred and 
eighty French Huguenots, most of whom were driven by star- 
vation to surrender at discretion. Dominique de Gourgues, a 
French soldier, avenged this massacre as I have described, devot- 
ing to this purpose his fortune, and exposing himself to the malice 
of his own King, Charles IX. I have used a poet's license in the 
introduction of a supernatural influence. The tale is told at 
length by my friend Francis Parkman, in his " Pioneers of France 
in the New World." 






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